


Can't Measure My Worth in Dry Rations

by Dangereuse



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Billy gets sold for canned goods, Billy is too angry for his own good, Frank is being a bit creepy here, Hasn't talked to anyone in a while, He's been alone for too long, M/M, One-Shot, Skin AU, Social skills atrophied, let's be real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25315507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangereuse/pseuds/Dangereuse
Summary: Turns out Billy was worth an old Remington 870 (with two boxes of double aught shot), a nine mil M&P shield (no ammo), three cases of green beans, 10 cases of Kashi bars, four cases of Hormel chill, six cases of Spam, 14 cases of Rice-a-Roni (assorted flavors), 19 sacks of rigatoni noodles, 17 jars of Ragu, 3 cases of creamed corn, a bushel of fresh apples picked from an orchard overrun by infected, and a fueled up pedo van. Billy supposed that, converted to the now defunct dollar, he probably made a very expensive whore. Didn’t mean he sat still and let them march them through the gate.“I’m not even gay!” He protested, which, while true, wasn’t quite honest.ORBilly's zombie apocalypse group sells him to a stranger for canned goods.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Billy Russo
Comments: 5
Kudos: 66





	Can't Measure My Worth in Dry Rations

The stranger at the gate wasn’t very large, all told. Billy figured him for 5’10“, or 11”. But he had presence enough that Schoonover and Madani would have considered shooting him on sight, if any of them had had the bullets to try it. It all came down to the stranger’s AR. How he held it. How he had approached the gate with it crooked in the lee of one arm. How he hadn’t pointed it at anyone. Excellent trigger control. No passovers. Trained.

Still, that didn’t mean that Billy didn’t eavesdrop on the conversation the stranger had with Schoonover and Rawlins. 

The stranger had sidled up to the gate, casual as you please, looking one way and then the other with an almost comical squint for infected. He spat a sunflower seed. Billy would have killed for a sunflower seed. Rations inside the university were getting low, and not a damn man, or woman, wanted to go searching for supplies in town. To be fair, infection. To be practical, starvation. Billy came down fully on the side of starvation, but not far enough that he’d chance the run alone, which was the only option thus far. Billy didn’t want to go alone. Bad things happened when no one had your back. 

“You got any homosexual men?” The stranger had asked, not looking directly at Schoonover or Rawlins. Billy knew it wasn’t cowardice. The stranger’s gaze had fixated on the shambling form of Mrs. Dunham. It was time for her shambling, circular walk. Billy hoped the stranger didn’t shoot Mrs. Dunham. Infected or not, she was a fixture around here. A fixture to Billy. Here, she came, taking her terrible pinwheel-y, arms spread excuse for a 3:00 walk. How else was Billy to know it was three?

Rawlins looked at Schoonover. “What’s it to you?” He asked, and Billy tried not to look at that grey dead eye where an infected had swiped him good. 

The stranger looked up the street and down the street again. He seemed to have catalogued Mrs. Dunham has a non-threat, but he kept Rawlins in the corner of his eye. Nice warm brown, Billy thought. His finger lay alongside the trigger of his AR. Billy suspected he could slot his finger in the well and take a shot before any of them could blink.

“Zombie apocalypse is no real place for a baby,” the stranger said, still not making eye contact. 

Schoonover laughed. Rawlins didn’t. 

“I guess,” Rawlins said, cold dead eye fixed on the stranger. “The real question is, how much is it to you.”

***

Turns out Billy was worth an old Remington 870 (with two boxes of double aught shot), a nine mil M&P shield (no ammo), three cases of green beans, 10 cases of Kashi bars, four cases of Hormel chill, six cases of Spam, 14 cases of Rice-a-Roni (assorted flavors), 19 sacks of rigatoni noodles, 17 jars of Ragu, 3 cases of creamed corn, a bushel of fresh apples picked from an orchard overrun by infected, and a fueled up pedo van. Billy supposed that, converted to the now defunct dollar, he probably made a very expensive whore. Didn’t mean he sat still and let them march them through the gate. 

“I’m not even gay!” He protested, which, while true, wasn’t quite honest. 

Madani, for her part, kept quiet about the time he’d sucked Gunnar (RIP you infected bastard) off behind the file cabinets.

Rawlins, for his flamingly homophobic part, did not. “Russo’s a fucking faggot. We should sell him for food before he gets desperate and turns on us, expecting us to sate his needs.”

Karen thought this logic was bullshit (thank fuck), but Dumont turned on him the second she’d confirmed he had a male lover (which hurt more than he cared to admit, condom shortage or not), and the only argument Fisk could make was his stomach. Lewis sided with Schoonover, of course, the little fuckup, and O’Connell tallied up the vote and religiously kept to the winning side. 

All said, all that meant was that Rawlins got Dumont to trick Karen an Madani into the library and lock the door behind them, while he and Schoonover came after him with fists and printer cables. They didn’t mark up his face, which would probably defeat the point, but Billy’s entire stomach was aching in a way that made him remember the foster system a little too much.

Rawlins ended up tying him to a rolling chair and pushing him out onto the main drive of the university. The gate was open for the first time in literally eight months. The sign still proudly said founded in 1886 and Billy felt every fucking decorative cobblestone that confirmed that on the thud-thud-thud of a way out. One of the wheels got stuck three-quarters of the way through the driveway, and rather than push him any further, Rawlins, called out, “He’s all yours!” To the stranger. 

Billy complained through his gag, but the stranger still approached, AR crooked leisurely in one arm. He came up to Billy, calm, easy movements, and Billy glared at Rawlins until he was out of sight, and then the stranger, when he wasn’t. 

The stranger paused in front of him. “I’m Frank,” he said, even, and in a way that didn’t expect an answer. He paused, seemed to spend a long moment thinking. Billy could tell he’d been alone a long time. He reached out the hand to pull Billy’s gag from his lips.

Billy tried to bite his fingers when the gag came out, and then only answered with a sneer. 

“You’re pretty, Russo,” Frank said, slow and and even, not lecherous at all. Billy snarled anyway. He hated being called pretty. One fucking benefit of the goddamn apocalypse had been never hearing that, ever a-fucking-gain. And here he was. “You gay?” Frank asked, still too busy tracking the rest of the street to make eye contact again. 

“I’m fucking bisexual, you freak,” Billy snarled, before he could marshal his temper into a lie. It probably would have served him better, pledging to be straight as a fucking rod. But, for fuck’s sake, 98% of the goddamn population was dead, and still here he was, the fucking poster boy for bisexual erasure. Enough was too much in that meeting 30 minutes ago, much less now. 

Frank nodded, and popped the gag back into his mouth. He cut Billy’s bonds from the chair, but not the ones that connected his limbs together, dropped that goddamn precious AR on its shoulder sling, and threw Billy over his unoccupied shoulder. Billy screamed, pounded Frank’s back with his tied hands. Frank didn’t appear to notice. Rawlins sarcastically saluted him behind his back, and Billy reached a new level of screeching rage. Unfortunately, no one could hear or fucking feel it. 

“I’m not looking to hurt you,” Frank said, “But go ahead and fight if you need to.” His voice was low, even and rough, and his gait was just as even, like he didn’t even mind bearing Billy’s weight, which was such crap, because Billy was sure he was taller than this guy. Billy struggled all the way to an old school pickup. Frank dumped him inside, took three whole seconds to truss Billy to the sissy bar in a move so fast and so expert Billy wasn’t certain if he’d really been fighting so viciously.

Billy glared at him. Frank pulled a long strip of cloth out of the glovebox, and wrapped it just as quick and expert around his eyes. He didn’t even catch any of Billy’s hair, tied as it was in the little tuft of a ponytail he still refused to part with in this apocalyptic hellscape. His hand came to rest on the side of Billy’s face. Frank’s hand wasn’t the largest, but it was strong.

“I’ll take care of you if you let me,” Frank said, voice gravel. And shut the door behind him.


End file.
